Elistan closed his eyes, his face, drawn with suffering, filled with grief. “I would have chosen differently for her, my friend, had I been able. I saw the road she walked. But, who questions the ways of the gods? Certainly not I. Although” opening his eyes, he looked up at Tanis, and the half-elf saw a glint of anger in them—“I might argue with them a bit.”
Tanis heard, behind him, the soft step of the acolyte. Elistan nodded. “Yes, I know. They fear that visitors tire me. They do, but I will find rest soon enough.” The cleric closed his eyes, smiling.
“Yes, I will rest. My old friend is coming to walk with me, to guide my feeble steps.”
Rising to his feet, Tanis cast a questioning glance at the acolyte, who shook his head.
“We do not know of whom he speaks,” the young cleric murmured. “He has talked of little else but this old friend. We thought, perhaps, it might be you—”
But Elistan’s s voice rose clearly from his bed. “Farewell, Tanis Half-Elven. Give my love to Laurana. Garad and the others”—he nodded toward the doorway—“know of my wishes in this matter of the succession. They know that I have entrusted this to you. They will help you all they can. Goodbye, Tanis. May Paladine’s blessing be with you.”
Tanis could say nothing. Reaching down, he pressed the cleric’s hand, nodded, struggled to speak, and at last gave up. Turning abruptly, he walked past the dark and silent figure in the corner and left the room, his vision blinded by tears.
Garad accompanied him to the front entrance of the Temple. “I know what Elistan has charged you with,” the cleric said, “and, believe me, I hope with all my heart his wishes come to pass. Lady Crysania is, I understand, on some sort of pilgrimage that could prove very dangerous?”
“Yes,” was all Tanis could trust himself to answer.
Garad sighed. “May Paladine be with her. W e are praying for her. She is a strong woman. The church needs such youth and such strength if it is to grow. If you need any help, Tanis, please know that you can call upon us.”
The half-elf could only mutter a polite reply. Bowing, Garad hurried back to be with his dying master. Tanis paused a moment near the doorway in an effort to regain control of himself before stepping outside. As he stood there, thinking over Elistan’s words, he became aware of an argument being carried on near the Temple door.
“I am sorry, sir, but I cannot permit you to go inside,” a young acolyte was saying firmly.
“But I tell you I’m here to see Elistan,” returned a querulous, crotchety voice.
Tanis closed his eyes, leaning against the wall. He knew that voice. Memories washed over him with an intensity so painful that, for a moment, he could neither move nor speak.
“Perhaps, if you gave me your name,” the acolyte said patiently, “I could ask him—”
“I am—The name is—” The voice hesitated, sounding a bit bewildered, then muttered. “I knew it yesterday...”
Tanis heard the sound of a wooden staff thumping irritably against the Temple steps. The voice raised shrilly. “I am a very important person, young man. And I’m not accustomed to being treated with such impertinence. Now get out of my way before you force me to do something I’ll regret. I mean, you’ll regret. Well, one of us will regret it.”
“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” the acolyte repeated, his patience obviously wearing thin, “but without a name I cannot allow—”
There was the sound of a brief scuffle, then silence, then Tanis heard a truly ominous sound—the sound of pages being turned. Smiling through his tears, the half-elf walked to the door. Looking outside, he saw an old wizard standing on the Temple stairs. Dressed in mouse-colored robes, his misshapen wizard’s hat appearing ready to topple from his head at the slightest opportunity, the ancient wizard was a most disreputable sight. He had leaned the plain wooden staff he carried against the Temple wall and now, ignoring the flushed and indignant acolyte, the wizard was flipping through the pages of his spellbook, muttering “Fireball... Fireball. How does that dratted spell go?...”
Gently, Tanis placed his hand upon the acolyte’s shoulder. “He truly is an important person,” the half-elf said softly. “You can let him in. I’ll take full responsibility.”
“He is?” The acolyte looked dubious.
At the sound of Tanis’s voice, the wizard raised his head and glanced about. “Eh? Important person? Where?” Seeing Tanis, he started. “Oh, there! How do you do, sir?” He started to extend his hand, became entangled in his robes, and dropped his spellbook on his foot. Bending down to pick it up, he knocked over his staff, sending it down the steps with a clatter. In the confusion, his hat tumbled off. It took Tanis and the acolyte both to get the old man back together again.
“Ouch, my toe! Confound it! Lost my place. Stupid staff! Where’s my hat?”
Eventually, however, he was more or less intact. Stuffing the spellbook back in a pouch, he planted his hat firmly on his head. (Having attempted, at first, to do those two things in reverse order.) Unfortunately, the hat immediately slipped down, covering his eyes.
“Struck blind, by the gods!” the old wizard stated in awe, groping about with his hands. This matter was soon remedied. The young acolyte—with an even more dubious glance at Tanis—gently pushed the wizard’s hat to the back of his white-haired head. Glaring at the acolyte irritably, the old wizard turned to Tanis. “Important person? Yes, so you are... I think. Have we met before?”
“Indeed, yes,” Tanis replied. “But you are the important person I was referring to, Fizban.”
“I am?” The old wizard seemed staggered for a moment. Then, with a humpf, he glared again at the young cleric. “Well, of course. Told you so! Stand aside, stand aside,” he ordered the acolyte irritably.
Entering the Temple door, the old man turned to look at Tanis from beneath the brim of the battered hat. Pausing, he laid his hand on the half-elf’s arm. The befuddled look left the old wizard’s face. He stared at Tanis intently.
“You have never faced a darker hour, Half-Elven,” the old wizard said gravely. “There is hope, but love must triumph.” With that, he toddled off and, almost immediately, blundered into a closet. Two clerics came to his rescue, and guided him on.
“Who is he?” the young acolyte asked, staring, perplexed, after the old wizard.
“A friend of Elistan’s,” Tanis murmured. “A very old friend.”
As he left the Temple, Tanis heard a voice wail, “My hat!”
5
“Crysania...
There was no reply, only a low moaning sound.
“Shh. It’s all right. You have been hurt, but the enemy is gone. Drink this, it will ease the pain.”
Taking some herbs from a pouch, Raistlin mixed them in a mug of steaming water and, lifting Crysania from the bed of blood-soaked leaves upon which she lay, he held the mug to her lips. As she drank it, her face smoothed, her eyes opened.
“Yes,” she murmured, leaning against him. “That is better.”
“Now,” continued Raistlin smoothly, “you must pray to Paladine to heal you, Revered Daughter. We have to keep going.”
“I—I don’t know, Raistlin. I’m so weak and—and Paladine seems so far away!”
“Pray to Paladine?” said a stern voice. “You blaspheme, Black Robe!”
Frowning, annoyed, Raistlin glanced up. His eyes widened. “Sturm!” he gasped.
But the young knight did not hear him. He was staring at Crysania, watching in awe as the wounds upon her body closed, though they did not heal completely. “Witches!” cried the knight, drawing his sword. “Witches!”
“Witches!” Crysania raised her head. “No, Sir Knight. We are not witches. I am a cleric, a cleric of Paladine! Look at the medallion I wear!”